


Between Motel Walls

by Kissing_Toast



Category: Supernatural
Genre: F/M, Multi, POV Outsider, Threesome - F/M/M, possibly AUish
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-12
Updated: 2018-06-12
Packaged: 2019-05-21 10:57:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 911
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14914073
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kissing_Toast/pseuds/Kissing_Toast
Summary: It's an ache, a thirst, a hunger. It's irredeemable, inimitable, dirty– and it's theirs.





	Between Motel Walls

**Author's Note:**

> Random little smut thing my brain demanded be penned. Nebulous season 7 setting, mid-series at least, and intentionally vague on the brother loving. Read into it what you will :)

Windows rolled down, causing a minor cyclone but it’s the only thing alleviating the July heat that ripples almost tangible across the shining surface of another lonely stretch of black top. Hair whips her eyes and air drums in her ears as she guns it towards nowhere.

 _Folsom Prison Blues_ is blaring through the speakers, fighting for space with the ear-popping thrum of wind moving, fast and harsh. She’s tapping away at the wheel, smile quirking her lips, shades assuaging the worst glare from the grey and worn road. The sun rides high and her state of mind takes a sharp left, wanting moodier tunes. So _Hurt_ gets queued and when the haunting guitar starts she cranks it and listens to the speakers crackle. Her chest swells, not caring how sad the song is, because she’s rolling along at a clip, hot and sticky but roaming along a path towards recklessness.

Fields blur past, and trees, and the occasional house. They’re all set dressing, elaborately real backdrops for her journey. As the sun sinks from its zenith, clouds roll in and when the first large drop hits her windshield she lets the growing deluge obscure her line of sight for as long as possible. The windows go up and the volume goes down, and she’s fit to burst with the anticipation she feels.

Sunset brings continued downpour, but the motel’s lights flicker like a disco-colored beacon in the wet dark. She pulls in, doesn’t even need to double check the room number, it’s seared into her retinas from when she checked the text hours ago. They called on her and she’s here, and they’re waiting. Waiting for the final participant of this peculiar little game.

Two dark sets of eyes greet her as the door swings open, then it’s a frenzy of mouths and teeth and ripping cloth. One of her boots goes flying and knocks a table lamp over with a dainty crash; none of them even react. The men smell of whiskey and sunbaked leather and cheap soap, but it’s always been home to her - a home she only visits every handful of years. They tumble onto the closest bed, mapping each other like explorers of a new land. It’s always like this, no matter how many times it’s like the first all over again and perhaps that’s why they don’t do it so often. But the itch unerringly returns, demanding to be scratched and she follows their lead, never able to give this up.

Time slows to insignificance while they’re consumed by each other, and consuming in equal measure. It holds no sway over the trembling of skin and pounding of hearts and throaty moans that make up the perverted concert of their love making. This most sinful of sacrosanct acts.

Rain belts down outside, claps of thunder like harbingers in the race towards release; lightning strobes lend an eerie cast to the ebb and flow of their bodies, the beast with three backs illuminated then plunged into darkness once more. Perhaps their rite conjures some dark magic because she feels the air move in swirls of non-existent wind, as sultry in the small room as the assignation itself.

It’s sensual as much as sexual, erotic certainly, but about so much more than chasing that little death. Sighs become murmurs, murmurs become moans, and moans become slurred profanities as their passion builds with the rising storm. Her fingernails leave welts on their skin as their hands leave bruises on hers, teeth rake over heated flesh and if someone happens to draw blood along the way, well it’s just part of their worship, to bleed for pleasure and beg for want. None of them will be able to move reliably tomorrow and she’ll mourn when the last ache heals, a souvenir lost to memory and time.

It's their dirty little secret, one that cannot ever be admitted to or owned, because they're outside of the world here; in a motel whose name is forgotten as soon as they arrive, in a town too small to be on the map, under the cover of night. Their nefarious dance lasts from dusk till dawn and then it's as if it never happened, until the next time she gets a text from an unknown number with a place to be and a door to knock on. No more, no less, only the promise that this way they'll walk away unscathed, in mind if not in body. Their interstitial dalliance has no place in the light, in the world outside, even for hunters who live on the fringes.

Midnight brings a pocket of near-silent privacy to the altar of their adulation. Out there they’re normal, functional, they blend in. In here she lets the exhaustion of their tryst take over and falls asleep to the sound of raindrops pattering on the corrugated awning outside, letting up in a poetic echo of their slowing pulses and evening breaths, window open a crack and curtain pulled back just enough to let some much needed air into the stifling mugginess three bodies created. She falls from consciousness, nestled between two sweaty bodies, no one holding the other, all just sprawled in the fatigue of after.

It’s only one night. And she won’t see them again for a long time, but they’re alive, and here now, and they’ll always have this secret little world between motel walls. It’s more than any of them can really ask for.

 


End file.
